and turned in a slow circle, trying to get a sense of what had happened, taking her time.
Ramsden was on his way towards her, having taken the long way round.
'The woman,' Ramsden said. 'Nothing she didn't say first time round.' He took a stick of chewing gum from his top pocket, removed the wrapping and put it in his mouth.
Karen held out her hand.
'Sorry,' Ramsden said. 'Last one.'
She didn't know whether to believe him or not.
'She recognise the victim?' Karen asked.
'Not from what she saw.'
'Get her to look at one of the Polaroids. Good chance, if they both use this place a lot, she'll have seen her before.'
But now Denison was shouting something from above, altar-boy face shining and a canvas sports bag held high in one gloved hand.
'Lucky bollocks,' Ramsden said, half beneath his breath. 'Fall in shit and he'd come up with a five-pound note.'
They climbed back up.
'It was there,' Denison said, pointing. 'Community centre. Pushed down below the steps by the door.'
'You've checked inside?' Karen asked.
Denison shook his head. 'Just a quick look. Sweatshirt. Towel. Socks.'
'Then we don't know it's hers,' Ramsden said.
'Let's see,' Karen said, reaching into the bag with gloved hands.
The wallet was safe in an inner pocket, square and dark, the leather soft with use. She lifted it out and let it fall open in her hand.
'Oh, shit,' she said softly. 'Shit, shit, shit.'
'What?' Ramsden said.
Karen held out towards him the warrant card with its small square photograph: Maddy Birch, Detective Sergeant, CID.
'She's one of ours.'
10
The press conference was packed to the gills. Television cameras, tape recorders, a smattering of old-fashioned spiral-bound notebooks, ballpoints at the ready. On the raised platform, a technician made a last-minute check of the microphones. The noise in the hall ebbed, and flowed. Out front, a Press and Public Relations officer had a quick word with the reporter from Sky News. Bar a terrorist attack or a celebrity scandal, the timing should guarantee blanket coverage on all the terrestrial channels, plus satellite and cable. BBC Radio was taking a live feed into its five o'clock news. A curtain twitched to one side, a door opened and, stern-faced, they shuffled in.
The platform was rich in seniority and rank. Assistant Commissioner Harkin took centre stage, to his right the Detective Chief Superintendent in command of Homicide West. Seated at the far left, Karen Shields was the only woman, the only black face amongst all those sober-faced and sombre-suited white men.
Arguments that she'd be better occupied elsewhere had been brushed aside: Public Relations liked to get her on camera as often as they could.
In her absence, Lee Furness was busy liaising with Forensics and overseeing the local area inquiries, while Mike Ramsden had travelled north to interview Maddy Birch's mother. Alan Sheridan, her office manager, was accessing the Sex Offenders Register, searching through computerised records of similar crimes. Only Paul Denison was temporarily idle, twiddling his thumbs in the car park waiting for Karen while she was stuck, unhappily, behind a microphone.
Bald head shining a little in the lights, the Assistant Commissioner began his statement: 'We are, all of us, shocked and saddened by the death of a colleague in this tragic and senseless way.' Using his notes sparingly, he spoke of Maddy Birch as a resourceful and dedicated officer who had shown extreme bravery only recently in going up against an armed and dangerous criminal when she herself was unarmed. 'All of us within the Metropolitan Police Service,' he concluded, 'have a grim determination to bring Maddy's killer or killers to justice as soon as possible.'
Flash bulbs popped.
Harkin gave brief details of the circumstances of Maddy's death and went on to give assurances that the Homicide officers leading the investigation would be able to call on the support, as necessary, of other Operational Crime Units, as well as
Ramsden was on his way towards her, having taken the long way round.
'The woman,' Ramsden said. 'Nothing she didn't say first time round.' He took a stick of chewing gum from his top pocket, removed the wrapping and put it in his mouth.
Karen held out her hand.
'Sorry,' Ramsden said. 'Last one.'
She didn't know whether to believe him or not.
'She recognise the victim?' Karen asked.
'Not from what she saw.'
'Get her to look at one of the Polaroids. Good chance, if they both use this place a lot, she'll have seen her before.'
But now Denison was shouting something from above, altar-boy face shining and a canvas sports bag held high in one gloved hand.
'Lucky bollocks,' Ramsden said, half beneath his breath. 'Fall in shit and he'd come up with a five-pound note.'
They climbed back up.
'It was there,' Denison said, pointing. 'Community centre. Pushed down below the steps by the door.'
'You've checked inside?' Karen asked.
Denison shook his head. 'Just a quick look. Sweatshirt. Towel. Socks.'
'Then we don't know it's hers,' Ramsden said.
'Let's see,' Karen said, reaching into the bag with gloved hands.
The wallet was safe in an inner pocket, square and dark, the leather soft with use. She lifted it out and let it fall open in her hand.
'Oh, shit,' she said softly. 'Shit, shit, shit.'
'What?' Ramsden said.
Karen held out towards him the warrant card with its small square photograph: Maddy Birch, Detective Sergeant, CID.
'She's one of ours.'
10
The press conference was packed to the gills. Television cameras, tape recorders, a smattering of old-fashioned spiral-bound notebooks, ballpoints at the ready. On the raised platform, a technician made a last-minute check of the microphones. The noise in the hall ebbed, and flowed. Out front, a Press and Public Relations officer had a quick word with the reporter from Sky News. Bar a terrorist attack or a celebrity scandal, the timing should guarantee blanket coverage on all the terrestrial channels, plus satellite and cable. BBC Radio was taking a live feed into its five o'clock news. A curtain twitched to one side, a door opened and, stern-faced, they shuffled in.
The platform was rich in seniority and rank. Assistant Commissioner Harkin took centre stage, to his right the Detective Chief Superintendent in command of Homicide West. Seated at the far left, Karen Shields was the only woman, the only black face amongst all those sober-faced and sombre-suited white men.
Arguments that she'd be better occupied elsewhere had been brushed aside: Public Relations liked to get her on camera as often as they could.
In her absence, Lee Furness was busy liaising with Forensics and overseeing the local area inquiries, while Mike Ramsden had travelled north to interview Maddy Birch's mother. Alan Sheridan, her office manager, was accessing the Sex Offenders Register, searching through computerised records of similar crimes. Only Paul Denison was temporarily idle, twiddling his thumbs in the car park waiting for Karen while she was stuck, unhappily, behind a microphone.
Bald head shining a little in the lights, the Assistant Commissioner began his statement: 'We are, all of us, shocked and saddened by the death of a colleague in this tragic and senseless way.' Using his notes sparingly, he spoke of Maddy Birch as a resourceful and dedicated officer who had shown extreme bravery only recently in going up against an armed and dangerous criminal when she herself was unarmed. 'All of us within the Metropolitan Police Service,' he concluded, 'have a grim determination to bring Maddy's killer or killers to justice as soon as possible.'
Flash bulbs popped.
Harkin gave brief details of the circumstances of Maddy's death and went on to give assurances that the Homicide officers leading the investigation would be able to call on the support, as necessary, of other Operational Crime Units, as well as
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